


"The In-Between"

by korereapers



Series: FE3H fic series [6]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Projecting onto Dimitri Fire Emblem, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Imagery, Character Study, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korereapers/pseuds/korereapers
Summary: "So I believed these words and I turned on myself'Cause maybe he's right, maybe I'm worthlessOr maybe he's wrong and my mother was rightI got a killer in me to give me purpose"
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, but it's very subtle. blink and you miss it
Series: FE3H fic series [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773310
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	"The In-Between"

**Author's Note:**

> "I'm in between, in between  
> In between hell and heaven"

Dimitri looks down at the pile of rubble, and blinks slowly.

His legs hurt, cramping from what he supposed it’s exertion, muscles twitching slightly and being kept in check with sheer stubbornness. His stomach grumbles, but he refuses to move.

He doesn’t deserve to move.

The Church is usually cold. A lot of empty space, people remaining silent when there is no choir practice or when it’s not time for Mass. Despite the physical cold, he used to find churches comforting, as a child.

Dimitri used to look at statues of the Saints with wonder, admiring both their strength and their kindness. His father used to tell him stories about each one of them with his warm and gentle voice, about Macuil’s tactical thinking, Indech’s wisdom, Cichol’s dedication, Cethleann’s gentle nature.

He is none of that. Never has been. He can smell the stench of blood from the last battle, not even being able to bother with a shower.

He is just an empty vessel for the monster that has always been lurking within. That’s everything he can aspire to be. Not even Seiros can work a miracle with him.

There, in front of what used to be a beautiful altar, there are just ruins. Like some kind of twisted metaphor of his life. He has never been too good at those.

Dimitri still finds himself praying. Words in the ancient language of Fódlan, that he learned when he was little. They escape his lips, and don’t feel his, but come from somewhere inside that has felt way too present in the last nine years.

He doesn’t know if it’s a call for help, or if he is begging for punishment. He doesn’t even know if he is making a noise, or if his prayers are just faint whispers that nobody can hear.

The Goddess can, he hopes. The Goddess hears Mercedes and Annette, singing as they merrily try to avoid dancing a little, too. Prayers full of joy, of beauty. Dimitri doesn’t have to look at them to know all of that, to feel it. To know Mercedes’ violet eyes shine when her best friend sings a little louder than usual. To feel Annette’s shameless happiness, her curiosity blossoming when Gilbert starts singing, too.

Dimitri cannot sing. Those are not his prayers, haven’t been for a long time. He has another tribute to offer.

He doesn’t really register violence, not anymore. Not the way he used to.

_It never becomes easier_ , he had told the professor, back in the day. He wasn’t lying. Each face is someone new to haunt him, someone to break him and to serve as a reminder. Of how dirty he is, how utterly rotten, broken and unsalvageable.

Wrath overcomes him when he impales an enemy general. The dead are chanting, and they want more.

_Make it hurt. Make it exemplary. Let their blood water our lands. Let their guts enrichen our soils. Let their souls be a tribute for those who fell before them._

Dimitri moves his spear upwards, a smile on his lips as the general makes a gagging noise, already half dead. It sounds like broken bones and pierced organs. There is too much blood, it smells fresh and metallic and absolutely disgusting. Dimitri doesn’t have a sense of taste anymore, hasn’t had for nine years now. His palate still twitches in disgust, but the dead won’t stop whispering.

The Goddess be praised, he hates himself so fucking much. He doesn’t allow himself to register the thought, or the feeling.

_Just. Keep. Going._

He doesn’t stop. The man makes a pleading noise, and Dimitri doesn’t know if it’s for him to end quickly, or to stop altogether. A part of him wants to cry, badly, wanting to let the spear go and to bring that man to a healer. Desperately. To clean the blood off the long nose, the unkept, dark beard. To reassure his relatives that he will be alright.

_Their heads. Their blood._

The dead crave, and he can do nothing but bring them some relief. This is how his father died. How his step mother died. How Glenn died.

How Dedue died.

Dimitri’s pulse falters for a moment, but he holds the weapon with even more strength. Metal bends between his hands, and rage blinds him as much as compassion does.

He fucking hates himself. This is all his fault.

“I know. I will.”

He repeats a prayer in his head, again and again, his spear still, letting the man bleed. There is nothing else he can do.

_Man proposes, and the Goddess disposes._

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Gentle, reassuring. Physical. He slowly looks to his side, already mumbling an apology. For not being enough, for still not having _her_ head. For not being enough to save them all. For letting them sacrifice themself for someone as bloody and rotten as him.

The professor looks at him, equally worried and stern. They look at him with pity in those green eyes, and he feels miserable. He didn’t like disappointing his professor as a teenager, but the life he has chosen for himself is surely the truest and shortest path for disappointment.

“It’s enough. Dimitri, it’s enough.”

“Eisner. Leave me be. The dead will have their tri-”

“He is already dead, you boar. Let it fucking go.”

Felix’s words are as sharp as his sword, but Dimitri doesn’t recoil. He doesn’t move for a few seconds, actually processing his words. He feels cold as he moves and untwists his spear, unceremoniously letting the man fall to the ground.

Maybe his death will calm the dead for a little while. Maybe it will please the Goddess, and he will feel her warmth once again.

He looks up, his body so tired it’s actually hard to move. His father looks back at him, his face blurry, changing. His head is barely attached to his body, and his featureless face is bloody.

Dimitri can still remember his voice, clear as day. The same voice he used to read him stories before sleep. The same voice that reassured him that everything was going to be okay.

_Her head, Dima._

He nods, wanting to puke.

“As you wish.”

He can feel Ingrid tense besides him, moving slightly before Sylvain touches her shoulder, dissuading her from doing or saying anything.

There is nothing that can be done.

A hole inside of him is threatening to bring him down. Dimitri swallows, throat dry and burning with bile. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate, not that it matters to him any longer.

They just don’t understand.

He still prays when they get to Garreg Mach. Same place, all day. Sorrowful, trembling, starving. Utterly exhausted. The face of the man he just killed burns in his memory, long nose broken, dark beard drenched with blood. He bites back the tears that almost betray him, and keeps praying.

Maybe, one day, the Goddess will listen.

Perhaps she was listening, after all. Because when Dedue appears in the middle of battle, very much alive and not a ghost, Dimitri feels solace in a way that he hasn’t felt in years.

One of the spirits disappears, and the weight on his shoulders is a little lighter.

Dimitri doesn’t stop praying, in front of the pile of rubble that is his faith. Prayers of gratefulness, of relief. Of pain, still. Of doubt.

_Actiones nostras, quaesumus Domina, aspirando praeveni et adiuvando prosequere: ut cuncta nosta oratio et operatio a te semper incipiat et per ta coepta finiatur._

Mercedes is talking to Dedue, loud enough for him to hear, but he can’t. Dedue answers her, and his tone is worried but determined. Dedue understands, strangely. His religion doesn’t bring him ghosts, doesn’t bring him this sense of sickness and dirtiness. It doesn’t make him feel like he has to spill blood, and then burn his skin until it doesn’t smell anymore.

Still, he understands. And Dimitri couldn’t be more grateful.

Mercedes’ presence besides him surprises him, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t react, can’t react. Absolutely nothing.

“Dimitri.” Mercedes says, her voice careful, as if she were dealing with a particularly scared and dangerous animal. Maybe she is.

Dimitri grunts in acknowledgement, because even in this state, he feels unable to talk back to her. No biting comments for someone as sweet as Mercedes. Sometimes, he wonders if the Goddess talks to him through her, and it’s just that the ghosts speak _louder_.

“He has been praying, Dimitri.” Mercedes says, and Dimitri finally looks at her with something akin to surprise. Her expression is sweet, as always, but there is a hint of both worry and gentle reproach in her violet eyes. She isn’t scared of him, never has. Not even like this. Not even when looking at this monster with a human face. “Dedue has been praying.”

“What… I… I don’t…”

_I don’t understand._

His voice doesn’t sound his. Half a sentence, half an animal-like sound. Mercedes just smiles, as if she knew something that he doesn’t.

Dedue doesn’t even believe in the Goddess. It doesn’t make any sense.

“I have been, too.” Mercedes adds, dwarfed even when Dimitri is visibly hunching, exhausted, dirty, hungry.

Absolutely miserable.

He looks up, thinking, his mind a mess, his heart even messier. He cannot feel his legs, but he flexes them, a little, nevertheless.

“We all are.”

Dimitri nods.

“Even Felix.”

At that, Dimitri almost smiles. Almost.

The next time that Dedue suggests a bath or a proper meal, he doesn’t refuse. He doesn’t agree right away, but he doesn’t cut him off. Ghosts are loud, but his feelings scream _louder_.

They threaten to drown him when Rodrigue dies.

_No, please, Goddess, no._

The ghosts falter. Glenn, his father. Both of them seem to be crying as much as he is. Felix stands, shaking visibly, with Sylvain on one side, Ingrid on the other. Dimitri wants to say something, anything to him. He can’t.

He cannot take his eyes out of Rodrigue’s agonizing frame.

His wounds don’t hurt as much as his feelings. Regret bites him from inside, because he is aware, more than ever, of what he has been doing, of what he has been neglecting. That maybe he wasn’t listening to the right words, true as light.

_Not again. Not another face to haunt me. Please, Goddess. Not another death because of me._

Rodrigue laughs weakly, and Dimitri realises his eyes are wet.

“Your Highness… You have one thing… terribly wrong.”

_None of them… none of us… died for you. I’m dying for what I believe in… just as they did. Your life is your own. It belongs to no other, living or dead. Live for what you believe in._

“Dimitri… My boy… You really do look like His Majesty.”

Lambert’s ghost is still blurry, incorporeal. Dimitri looks up for a moment, and his father is looking back at him.

“Lambert… My promise… I…”

Dimitri doesn’t have to check his pulse, shaking violently as he tries no to cry. Dedue puts a hand on his shoulder, a silent support.

This time, Dimitri listens.

Gilbert tries to speak some words for Felix, whose expression is unreadable. Ashe looks in the verge of crying, because he too knows how much it hurts to lose a father.

Nobody is able to say a thing.

And then, the spirits start screeching. Dimitri closes his eyes, but he knows that a new voice has joined them.

_Her blood. Her head. For us. Don’t forget._

Dimitri murmurs a prayer, but he doesn’t seal it with a promise. This time, he can’t.

That night, he tries to march to Embarr. Alone. It rains, and strangely, he can feel it on his skin, chilling him to the bones. It’s freezing, but he keeps walking. He only knows how to keep walking, to a path of destruction, a path that either ends with him brutally decapitating the Emperor, or with him finally succumbing to his wounds, his blood finally giving the dead what they truly want.

The professor stops him. And for the first time, Dimitri actually asks for help. And again, he makes the choice, and listens.

“You have suffered enough.”

Their hand is warm, soft. Comforting, like the one of a parent. For the first time in nine years, he feels like it’s fine, like everything is going to be alright. His hand trembles, but he cannot cry, not yet.

He has been a fool.

He is unclean, a monster, a sinner. The one who lived, while others died. A bringer of misfortune, his people burning a whole nation to the ground because of his weakness. Why would the Goddess even want to listen to someone like him?

Byleth listens. Mercedes listens. Dedue listens. 

When they go back to Garreg Mach, he just looks at the usual pile of rubble. And finally, he notices people picking up the pieces. Soldiers, pilgrims. Everyone, doing what they can. Speaking, sharing, making the church a warmer place.

As it turns out, he was the one that wasn’t listening.

Dedue is besides him, without looking at him. Giving him space, letting him think. Letting him sort out his feelings.

They wait for hours, until nobody but them is there, until he can actually hear his own prayers, whispering in a voice that finally sounds like his. His body cramps, his soul bleeds. The dead are not silent, but he is listening to his own faith. His own beliefs.

And finally, his legs give up.

Dedue moves instantly, and he lets him. He lets him help, he lets him put his arm around his shoulders. He is warm. He feels alive. He just wasn't looking hard enough.

“I’m sorry.” Dimitri says, and he means it. Dedue shakes his head, like he always does, and helps him towards his chambers.

“You should sleep, your Highness.”

A fool, he has been a fool. He smiles, weakly, but truly in peace. His cheek is wet, he realises, but he doesn’t stop himself this time.

“I’m sorry. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

He falls asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow. He murmurs another apology, another word of gratitude. A prayer. Because finally, he understands.

It’s not that the Goddess wasn’t talking. He just wasn’t listening right.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title and summary are from a song by In This Moment. This is exactly the aesthetic I feel the ghosts and spiritual guilt have.
> 
> I used to have a terrible relationship with religion and spirituality until very recently. Raised catholic, I was angry and gay. Now I am at peace. I wanted Dimitri to be at peace, too.
> 
> I could talk and talk about worldbuilding in Faerghus, about ghosts and religion and a culture that teaches kids to use a sword before they learn how to write their own name. But this is what I wanted to say about the matter. Take it, because it's very personal. It's a love letter to myself, and to the person I want to become.
> 
> As always, I appreciate comments more than I appreciate kudos, but I know not everybody feels like it. If you have something to say, I'll be super pleased to hear it!
> 
> Also yeah, my new twitter account is prayforfroot. Same url on tumblr for my fanfics sideblog. My main tumblr account is eskuhotzak. Follow me, talk to me, whichever is fine!
> 
> Also yes, again, I'm not a native speaker. Stuff happens


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